Prince

By Janet Baldey

One hind leg cocked, Prince stood slumped against rough wood while large shapes shifted and swayed in the shadows.. Gradually, splinters of light pushed through the uneven planking and the dim light began to lift. There was a distant sound of clanking and Prince’s ears twitched as he opened his eyes. The other horses had heard it too and began to stamp their hooves. At last the stable door creaked open and Jim appeared with steaming buckets filled to the brim with bran mash.

‘Wake up boys.’ he called ‘Breakfast’. 

The sun was a flat orange line on the horizon when the horses were led into the yard. Prince stood patiently while Jim heaved the heavy collar over his head and threw the britching over his rump. The routine never varied and Prince knew exactly what to expect. As a foal, he’d trotted behind his mother, watching and learning. There was the winter ploughing when, muscles bunching, the horses leaned into their collars, drawing the heavy plough over a choppy sea of clay. They pulled the seed drill in the spring and the hot, heavy days of summer were spent heaving carts filled with hay and harvested wheat. Little had changed for centuries and the slow, even cycle of the farming year were ideally suited to the heavy horses’ placid and uncomplaining natures. 

But nothing lasts forever and gradually the atmosphere around the farm altered. Prince was not aware of this as his thoughts did not travel much beyond anticipating his next bucket of oats. If, however, he had been able to understand the sounds issuing from men’s mouths, maybe he would have worried. Their talk was all about war.  Gradually men who cared for the horses left never to be seen again. They were not replaced and fields were left fallow. Prince was aware that Jim no longer harnessed him up. This task had been taken over by a younger and more inexperienced man. Although he meant well, he was clumsy and sometimes let the collar fall heavily onto Prince’s neck. Prince would snort and toss his head but otherwise, he bore the rough treatment with fortitude until his whole life changed 

Early one morning the stable door swung opened and several different men entered.  Prince looked up, curiously. Flashlights gleamed in the darkness. The men stopped by Prince’s stall and one ran experienced hands over his body. 

‘This one’ll do’ he said.   

 Prince was taken out into the yard but instead of being harnessed up, a heavy linen cloth was wrapped around his eyes and he was suddenly plunged into darkness.  He lifted his head to protest and as he did so a thick rope was twisted around his neck and he was pulled forward. He tried to resist but several men heaved on the rope and he was forced to walk on. As he did, he noticed the ground under his hooves changed and began to slope.  Hard shoulders leaned on him from behind and he was propelled into a dark space that echoed under his stamping hooves. The space began to sway and Prince had to brace his body to keep upright. The lurching journey seemed to go on forever but at last it came to a juddering halt.  Prince was led back down the slope into the open air and to his great relief the bandage was taken off. He looked around him. He was in a large field together with several other horses; gratefully, Prince lowered his head and began to munch the sweet grass.    

Just before the sun rose the next morning, Prince and the other horses were rounded up. Again, they were forced to suffer the indignity of being blindfolded and were led in single file out of the field.  Prince put his mind into neutral and followed his handler uncomplainingly, his hooves clopping along a metalled road. As he walked, a salt-laden breeze began to blow towards him and Prince’s nostrils twitched at the unfamiliar smell. 

‘Whoa boy’. Again he was halted and to his surprise, he found that bands were being fastened around his middle.  Suddenly, he was hoisted into the air and he snorted with terror, cold air rushed past his body then with a sickening lurch he found himself dropping downwards into a fetid hold that smelled of sweat. This time the blindfolds were not removed and Prince had to endure two days in a rolling hell. Closely tethered, he was unable to move more than a few feet and as the ground beneath him heaved Prince’s flanks brushed against those of the other horses, their fear contaminating him. 

At last his ordeal ended and once again he found himself in fresh air. Prince stood still, feeling too miserable to move, his head was hanging, and he trembled with exhaustion. He was so steeped in misery that at first he failed to recognise a familiar voice. 

‘Prince. I thought it was you, old boy.’ 

Gentle hands removed the grubby bindings covering Prince’s eyes. The unaccustomed light dazzled him and he did not recognise the man standing before him. Then he gave a soft nicker of realisation. It was Jim. It was the man who had looked after him at the farm. 

Jim’s face was deeply lined and grey with exhaustion. He stared at the horse, and his face twisted with pity. 

‘It isn’t fair,’ he whispered. ‘Welcome to the Western Front’. As he spoke a distant flash illuminated the skyline and there was a low rumble as if of thunder. 

Now Prince had to get used to a new routine. At first light each morning, Jim would lead the big carthorse outside.  A heavy harness was strapped to his body and his eyes were shielded by thick leather blinkers. Urged on by Jim, Prince’s hooves squelched through rain-sodden ground as he hauled on his heavy load.  His nostrils flared, the sickly sweet stench of the mud-filled him with dread and if it wasn’t for the sound of Jim’s voice muttering quietly in his ear, he would have refused to budge.  But Prince trusted Jim. Jim looked after him and always had done. As much as any animal could, Prince loved Jim and would have followed him anywhere. 

 As the weeks passed, the strain began to tell on both man and animal.  Each laboured all day and far into the night and the work was gruelling.  Prince would frequently sink to his fetlocks in the glutinous mud and the effort of having to pull a heavy load in such terrain exhausted him. As he strained and heaved his legs out of the sucking mud day after day, Prince became an automaton, lost in a nightmare of darkness and noise. The low rumble of the guns in the distance was incessant and although his blinkers blocked out the sight of most of the carnage, it could not block it out entirely and often Prince caught glimpses of dead horses, their stiffened limbs jutting at unnatural angles, their wounds gaping scarlet against the mud.   

Gradually all his spirit drained away. He got little rest. During the short periods he spent in his stall, he would stand trembling, his ears constantly pricking this way and that, listening to the thunder of the guns and the shouts and screams of the soldiers. One day, just after they had delivered some supplies to the front line, the enemy cannons found their range. There was an ear-splitting explosion and a great gout of stinking mud fountained into the air, it rained down and spattered onto Prince who reared, screaming. With all his strength, Jim clung onto his bridle, doing his best to calm the animal but Prince had been temporarily deafened by the blast and was unable to hear Jim’s soothing voice. A red mist of fear descended upon him, he just wanted to get away, he forgot all about Jim, forgot that he was his friend. He shook his head madly trying to escape from his burden.  Jim, worn down by many months at the Front, could hold on no longer and with a despairing cry, he fell under the horse’s flailing iron-shod hooves.  Prince reared, beating at the air, then turning he careered back down the way that he had come, his cart lurching along behind him. 

When the men caught up with him he was standing exhausted, his flanks heaving. He was covered in sweat and streaked with mud and his eyes were red and rolling with insane panic.  

‘Poor brute’ one said.  

So far gone was Prince, that he didn’t feel the cold ring of steel against his poll and didn’t hear the explosion that ended his life.  He was just one of the eight million horses who died on the Western Front in the First World War. 

Copyright Janet Baldey

 

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